


And When You're Gone

by lionheartedbeings



Category: Electronic Dance Music RPF
Genre: Angst, Healing, Lots of vomiting, M/M, Overdose, Suicide, Vomiting, attempted suicide, broken relationship, drug abuse?, extreme sickness, medicinal abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-23 12:55:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11402850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lionheartedbeings/pseuds/lionheartedbeings
Summary: “hi i’d like to report an attempted suicide.”the voice on the other end is calm. “alright sir, can i have your name?”he vomits. “porter robinson.”“alright, and the victim's name?”“porter robinson”"oh."





	And When You're Gone

porter's thin fingers weave themselves together, his knuckles white as he holds onto his own hand with crushing strength.

"robinson, porter." a voice calls and he begins to get up, his body trembling slightly. he looks for the source of the voice, his sleep deprived eyes slowly searching until he sees her. she is middle aged and tall: taller than he is. he can feel his stomach churning with every step towards her smiling face.

"right this way" she says with that same grin plastered across her face, so fake it makes porter almost feel more sick. he shakes his head slightly.

"porter, this is dr. remingfree. i'm sure that you two will get along well." she chirps and exits.

porter can almost taste the sweetness in dr. remingfree's voice, as she greets him. he feels even more sick, but says nothing.

“so my chart shows that you're depressed for sure, have severe anxiety, and hallucinate. are you on any prescription or non perscription drugs?”

“no.” porter lies. he’s been trying to overdose on cough syrup for weeks. he keeps throwing up before he can convince himself to take that last tablespoon. he is almost out of stores to get new bottles from, but he’ll figure something out.

“porter, have you seriously contemplated suicide?” dr. remingfree asks him, and again he lies.

“no.” he mumbles. he is a bad liar. hugo used to tell him that a lot. not that hugo probably really meant half the things he said… now that he's-

porter lowers his head to cover the tears forming in his eyes. dr. remingfree makes a sympathetic noise, and smiles at him with the fakest of smiles.

“porter, i think the best solution for you is just to keep trying to stay out of the negativity.” she says. he looks pointedly past her out the window. it's cold and bleak outside. fog. probably raining.

is it raining in france, hugo? he asks but doesn't really want to know the answer. there's something coming from the fog now. something dark. he blinks. it doesn't go away.

“dr. i think i need to use the restroom…” porter mumbles and shakes a little. he moves his leg to an invisible beat, pretending he needs to pee.

“of course.”

porter gets up quickly, his chest heaving as he runs to the bathroom. he can hear it now. the darkness. the blackness with a face and a name. he runs into one of the stalls, cowering behind a thin plastic wall. he isn't safe. the darkness tears down the door easily. eight legged and multi eyed, one of its tentacles reaches to grab a hold of his face. he's shaking, crying… it's not ending like usual…

a mouth appears in the black darkness. “porter…” it grumbles. he hates this voice. the grip on his face tightens as the creature presses it's appendage around his throat. he's choking. he can see hugo’s face, smiling. and then he stops breathing. he shuts his eyes slowly, and opens them. it's gone. his hands are pressed at his trachea and he's leaning against the wall of the stall, strangling himself.

he lets go. he's gagging now, spewing up bile and cough medicine. it hurts. it fucking hurts but he loves it.

the first projectile of vomit barely makes it into the toilet. hes shaking from adrenaline and impaired with emotion. he smiles, and then coughs again, throwing up more from his empty stomach. his sunken eyes brighten as they look at the contents of the cold porcelain bowl. he's shivering. he doesn't have much warmth.

 _you took it with you hugo. that and everything i was. didn't you._ porter doesn't like to think about hugo much, but he can't stop. he was his sun and his moon, and now, he's just a memory. _just like he wanted all along._

sure it took a while to get the feeling of hugo’s hair from between his fingers, and it took even longer to get the taste of his lips out of his mouth, as well as the sound of his labored breathing when they made out. it took a while to get the feeling of his hugs and soft forehead kisses out of his mind but it’s okay. he doesn't want it anymore. _fuck you. you did this._

what he hasn't gotten over is hugo himself, which is a task he might never complete.

he wipes his mouth and rinses in the sink before entering the room with dr. remingfree.

“so, porter, my plan is for you to come back next week and report your progress.”

she slides a sheet of warm paper across the desk that feels good to his cold hands. he picks it up and reads it.

**10 Tips for the Depressed and Anxious**

he feels nauseous again. he hasn't felt this sick since hugo told him he was going.

“how is this going to help-?”

“just follow the guidelines, porter. i’ll see you next tuesday.”

_if you're lucky…_

porter sighs and takes a breath in. he feels… dead.

xxx

the door to his apartment is hard to open. he shoves the key in the lock hard. it barely budges.

_fuck you._

he sighs and pushes it one last time. the lock clicks and he almost smiles with relief. that is, until the door opens. the floor is littered with boxes of food and cans of beer and soda. the couch is clear, much to his relief, and he falls down on it. the smell is awful, but it's not really that bad after he considers what he's been through. he feels something in the couch and digs for it. it's a guitar pick. one of hugo's, probably. he sighs and throws it into the trash piles. “you happy, hugo?”

he feels bile rise in his throat again. he remembers what they did on this couch, what he said…

_“I love you.” he murmurs into hugo’s shoulder. it's bare and warm despite it being cold in the room._

 

 

_“j’taime, port.” hugo whispers back, kissing porter’s neck. he almost whines but holds it back. hugo’s teeth graze his neck again and he shivers._

 

_“hugo it's cold.” porter complains. he's fully clothed, unlike hugo. who shed his shirt._

 

 

_“let's go to bed then.” hugo smiles, and porter feels his blush deepen. he feels paralyzed._

 

 

_“hugo, i-”_

 

 

_he cuts him off with a deep deep kiss, and porter ignores everything around him, for a while._

porter flinched. he could feel himself getting red again. he wouldn't. he couldn't remember. he gets up and takes off his clothes before crawling into bed. the sheets are at least clean. that's one thing he can't bring himself not to do. the sheets are cold and he wishes he had hugo’s warmth to keep him company. _no i don't. but i do._

he looks at the ceiling and remembers the sounds that had been made in the room. laughter when they woke up. moans when they wouldn't go to sleep. crying when something was going wrong. _everything is going wrong,_ he thinks.

he doesn't sleep again. it's about 2 am when his stomach starts to grumble and he gets out of bed, brokenly. he heads to the kitchen, pouring himself another glass of cough syrup and slowly sinking into a semi-clean chair. _it's breakfast for you, isn't it, hugo?_ he smiles for a moment, thinking about the fresh croissants they shared when porter visited france. his eyes fill with tears. hes shaking when he picks up the glass, and it falls out of his hand, spilling the liquid all over him and the table. he sighs. it's late, he doesn't want to shower, but he can't go back to bed like this.

he sits and waits for a while. it's getting unbearably sticky. he looks down and it's boiling and rolling down his legs, burning. it's filling the room, slowly sweeping all of his belongings out the broken windows, cars honking as gallons of cherry cough syrup flows out the window, and yet he's still submerged, his lungs filling with thick, red liquid, and he's choking again.

he finally shakes off the hallucination. he's lying on the bathroom floor with his face in the tub, choking on water. he pulls himself out, hacking up water and cough medicine and wanting to die.

 _h...hugo i need you._ he thinks, faltering. yes, that's what he needs. he needs him back. he's scared of himself at this point. porter cleans himself off and crawls back to bed, shaking. he finally sleeps, but his dreams are far worse than reality.

x x x

he wakes up in the morning and vomits, and can't stop. porter grabs the edge of the toilet seat with weakening hands, his body heaving and heaving out things he doesn’t think he has left in him. half the time he can't tell if it’s cough syrup or blood. his hands begin to slacken on the porcelain seat. he’s shaking, and panicking. he briefly remembers his phone is in his pocket and reaches for it. he can't move. he falls slack to the floor, vomiting on the linoleum.

 _why did i do this?_ he thinks. he groans. he thinks of hugo and feels worse but also better. he throws up again and reaches for his phone. he decides to call 9-1-1 before calling hugo. he weakly manages to dial the numbers. he vomits as she answers. “hi i’d like to report an attempted suicide.”

the voice on the other end is calm. “alright sir, can i have your name?”

he vomits. “porter robinson.”

“alright, and the victim's name?”

“porter robinson”

“oh. address?”

he tells her and hangs up. he calls hugo.  
it rings for a little bit and he hopes the wifi is working enough to send his stupid call thousands of miles to nantes, france.

there is a long pause, then ringing. porter sighs with relief. the phone makes a click as hugo picks up. porter throws up again.

“s-shit. sorry hugo, uh, hi.”

_this is not how i wanted it to go!_

“porter?” hugo sounds borderline panicked. not disappointed.

“yeah…?” porter manages.

“oh mon dieu port!! i've been so worried about you! you haven't answered me in months, you cancelled all your upcoming shows, there hasn't been word from you online…” hugo catches himself panicking, his voice cracking. “wait, why did you call me?”

“i'm dying hugo.”

“WHAT?”

“i drank too much-”

“you called me to tell me you had a hangover.” hugo sounds disappointed.

“No, hugo, you do this all the time! you cut me off! I-” Porter pauses to throw up again. It hurts so bad. He lets out a weak groan of pain.

“Hugo I tried to kill myself.”

“Port…” Hugo trails off. He sounds like he is choking. porter can hear a noise in the background, like yelling.

“where are you?” porter mumbles.

“i’m coming to see you.” Hugo says.

“no where are you now?”

“that doesn't matter! I’m going to see you! porter… i know you don't want to hear it but i'm sorry. i shouldn't have left. i shouldn't have treated you how i-”

porter doesn't hear the rest. he is puking again. he screams in pain and he hears hugo make a noise of pure sadness.

“h-hhu-” porter tries to speak but he feels like his words are stuck.

“port?”

“hugo?”

“i’m coming on the next available flight. where are you?”

“they're coming.”

“who?”

he had hears the footsteps all the way up to his room by then. a rough pair of hands grab him off the floor. they take him and the phone.

“hello? who is this.” one of the paramedics says into the phone.

“who are you? what are you doing to him?”

“it's alright. we're the paramedics. we're taking care of him right now. i just need to know who you are and if you have any information that we can use.”

hugo can’t help it. he chokes on a sob. “i don't know, i haven't talked to him in months. i'm coming on a new flight though. in the meantime, i can answer anything you need to know.”

“where are you, sir?”

“i’m in france.”

“oh. that's quite far. how do you know the victim?”

victim. the word sounds sharp in hugo’s ears.

“he and i are friends.” he hates how forced the word sounds. “we've been friends for at least 10 years now.”

suddenly the connection dies. they left porter’s wifi hugo thinks. he sighs. he looks up. in front of him is a crowd of people, silent.

“i’m sorry, i have to go, it's a family emergency.” hugo whispers finally into the mic. he has tears on his face. “i'm so sorry.”

the crowd sounds sad but does not boo. hugo feels a little better. he runs backstage to his manager. “i need a flight back to america. porter’s in the hospital.”

“whoa whoa, hugo, why don't you go finish your set? these people came out here for you. besides, it'll be a good distraction.”

“i’m sorry, but this is a serious issue.”

“hugo, porter doesn't count as a family member. this isn't a family emergency. why would you abandon your fans, who paid for this concert?” he asks.

“no.” hugo responds, turning his face so that he won't see his tears. “he doesn’t. but i wish he did. i'm going, and i'm really sorry but i'm not finishing tonight's show

anton is backstage too.

“hugo is everything alright?” he asks. before he knows it, hugo is crying. hard. tears are running down his face, and he’s shaking with large, gasping sobs.

_everything is not alright. nothing is._

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! sorry it's all in lowercase because i'm on my phone ;-;


End file.
